Prodigy

if they capture
me
here (that’s our goal, after all), but what about my guide?
    He reaches up toward the first security cam, then uses the knife to scrape away some of the rubber coating protecting the cam’s wires. When a bit of the rubber comes off and exposes the wires underneath, he wraps his fingers in the length of his sleeve and presses the metal button against the wires.
    A quiet burst of sparks. To my surprise, every security cam along the hall blinks off.
    “How’d you break all of them with just one—?” I start to whisper.
    The guide jumps back down to the ground and motions for me to hurry up. “I’m a Hacker,” he whispers back as we run. “I’ve worked the command centers here before. I rewired things a little to suit us.” He smiles proudly, showing even white teeth. “But this is nothing. Just wait till you hear about what we’ve done to Denver’s Capitol Tower.”
    Impressive. If Metias joined the Patriots, he’d be a Hacker too.
If he were alive.
    We sprint down the hall until he stops us at one of the doors. Barrack 4A. Here he pulls out a key card and swipes the door’s access panel. It clicks and swings open a little—inside, eight rows of bunks and lockers sit in the dark.
    The Hacker turns to face me. “Razor wants you waiting here to ensure that the right soldiers capture you. He has a specific patrol in mind.”
    Of course, makes perfect sense. It confirms that Razor doesn’t want me beaten to a pulp by letting just any Republic patrol arrest me. “Who—?” I start to ask.
    But he taps the edge of his military cap before I can finish. “We’ll all be watching your mission from the cams. Good luck,” he whispers. Then he’s gone, hurrying down the hall until he rounds a corner and I can’t see him anymore.
    I take a deep breath. I’m alone. Time to wait for soldiers to arrest me.
    I quickly step inside the room and shut the barrack door. It’s pitch-black in here—no windows, not even a slit of light from under the door. Certainly a believable enough place for me to be hiding. I don’t bother moving farther into the room; I already know what the layout is, rows of bunk beds and a communal bathroom. I just flatten myself against the wall right next to the door. Better to stay here.
    I reach out in the darkness and find the doorknob. Using my hands to measure, I gauge how far the knob is from the ground (three feet six). That’s probably how much space is between the doorknob and the top of the door frame too. I think back to when we were still standing out in the corridor, picturing how much space is between the door frame’s top edge and the ceiling. It must’ve been a little less than two feet.
    Okay. Now all my details are in place. I settle back against the wall, close my eyes, and wait.
    Twelve minutes drag by.
    Then, farther down the hall outside, I hear a dog’s bark.
    My eyes pop open.
Ollie.
I’d recognize that bark anywhere—my dog is still alive.
Alive, by some miracle.
Joy and confusion wash over me. What the hell is he doing here? I press an ear against the door and listen. Several more seconds of silence. Then, I hear the bark again.
    My white shepherd is here.
    Now thoughts are racing through my mind. The only reason why Ollie would be here is because he’s with a patrol—the patrol that’s hunting me down. And there’s only one soldier who’d think to use my own dog to sniff me out: Thomas. The Hacker’s words come back to me. Razor wanted “the right soldiers” to capture me. He had a specific patrol in mind.
    Of course the patrol—the
person
—Razor had in mind would be Thomas.
    Thomas must’ve been assigned by Commander Jameson to track me down. He’s using Ollie to help. But of all the patrols I’d prefer to be arrested by, Thomas’s ranks last on the list. My hands start to shake. I don’t want to see my brother’s murderer again.
    Ollie’s barking grows steadily louder. With it come the first sounds of footsteps and voices. I hear Thomas’s voice out in the corridor, shouting to his soldiers. I hold my breath and remind myself of the numbers I’d calculated.
    They’re right outside the door. Their voices have gone quiet, replaced by clicks (safety on loaded guns, sounds like some M-series, some standard-issue rifles).
    The following seems to happen in slow motion. The door creaks open and light spills in. Immediately I make a small jump and step one leg up—my foot lands silently on the doorknob as the door